fX: 



Robert Churchill. 



IN 



FIVE ACTS. 



^ci S* r^ce ?Z€ 7^ S^O K. 



\j' 



\ 



Robert Churchill 



IN 



FIVE ACTS. 



I . 






tst^^ 



CHARACTERS, 

Mrs. Churchill, .,..,. A Widow. 

Reginald, .....,,. Her Son, 

Robert, ..,,.... Her Step-son, 

Beatrice, , Her Daughter, 

Lady Dora Percival. 

Lord Augustus Mandeville. 

Prentiss Cakrington, , , . , , His Nephew 

Sir Gladwold. 

Servant, 

Sci^NE ; i^n gland, mar London, 



TMP92-008662 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 



ACT I. 

SCENE. — Residence of the Chur chills. A finely furnished 
apartment. Open c. doors. Doors r. and l. and a 
window 1.. upper entrance. Sofa left hand under window. 

[Enter Reginald, c] 

Reg. I have not closed my eyes this night. The 
fear of approaching evil weighs upon my spirit and de- 
stroys my rest. Behind transgression's luring front re- 
morse steals like a thief. Oh, I wish I had no con- 
science, for 'tis a careless monitor at best that gives 
alarm when the deed has slipped and help comes in too 
late. I owe Wrexford 5000/. — 5000/. ! How tremen- 
dous that amount now seems, how little in spending it. 
He led me on, placed a ready purse at my disposal ; I 
betted, I raced, I gambled. I would pretend the gen- 
tleman and so betrayed the fool. My folHes bore fine 
fruit. I fell a ready victim to a villain's wiles, and he 
plucked me bare. That money I must have or else 
publish my own disgrace in the ruin of my family. But 
how ? 

SjEttter Mrs. Churchill ^;z^ Beatrice, l. door.'\ 

Mrs. C. Are you here yet, Reginald, and in this cos- 
tume ? What is the matter with you lately ; you are 
getting as neglectful of yourself as an old man. There 
is something troubling you. 

Reg. (r.) Nothing of the kind, mother — pure imagi- 
nation, I assure you. 

Beat, (l.) Pure imagination, is it ? Is that what 
keeps you pacing your room night after night, so I can't 
sleep ? I don't believe a word of it. You must be nurs- 
ing some dreadful secret. Or, tell me, dear, are you in 
love ? 1 heard that is one of the symptoms. 



4 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Reg. You have heard too much, or may be you speak 
from experience. 

Beat. There you are, always as disagreeable as can 
be — a person can't get a sensible word out of you. 

Mrs. C. vSomehow your brother's coming appears to 
me like an evil omen to this house. 

Beat. Mother, why ? 

Mrs. C. I don't know. Somehow I never could bring 
myself to love the shy and gloomy child your father pre- 
sented to me the day he brought me to his home. Per- 
haps it was because your father was partial to his eldest 
born that I disliked the boy. 

Beat. You did not drive him from you, mother ? 

Mrs. C. Your father died leaving an encumbered 
estate. All the money I had was my own, and though I 
considered the support of his child a burden to me, I 
conscientiously provided for his education. When Rob- 
ert returned from college he saw how unwelcome he was 
at my house and table ; and I really do not remember how 
it came about that he accepted an offer to go to America, 
and left us with but a cold farewell. I have since heard 
that he has made a fortune there. Now he comes back 
to visit us, bringing with him a young girl whom he has 
adopted — the daughter of an actor. 

Beat. How touchingly Robert writes of her. I am 
so anxious to know this orphan, to extend to the poor 
girl the hand of devoted friendship. 

Mrs. C. We shall receive her on his account. But he 
will be disappointed if he imagines that we shall parade 
this obscure offspring of the stage as our equal before the 
world. 

Beat. But, mother, we cannot humiliate Robert's 
ward. Remember we have accepted frequent favors 
from him. 

Mrs. C. He has not half repaid the debt he owes to 
me. Besides is it not sufficiently humiliating to have it 
broached about that one of our family is earning his liv- 
ing in trade and common barter. 

Reg. Well, mother, he has money, and that is in itself 
a sufficient excuse for the means of making it, even in this 
country. As for this ward of his, I shall not forget to 
conduct myself toward her as a gentleman — if she be a 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 5 

lady ; if not, she sinks below our level, and propping will 
do no good. At any rate Robert has given us frequent 
indications of his good-will, and for that reason alone he 
should be well received. 

Mrs. C. Be sure I shall not make a prodigal of him. 
I have some distinctly unpleasant recollections about 
him. You will learn to know him too. 

Beat. I don't remember anything of Robert ; still I can 
respect him who, disclaiming the vain advantages of 
birth, fights his way upward without a helping hand. 
To me he seems like a hero. 

Mrs, C. Well, well ; we shall see how he conducts 
himself. In the meantime I go to give some orders for 
the rooms our guests shall occupy. I'll need you, 
Beatrice. 

\Crosses\.. and exeunt Mrs. Churchill ^/^^Beatrice, l. 

door.\ 

Reg. (c.) Come, come, shake off this cowardly ap- 
prothension. What a sloth I am to stagger so under the 
evil I have laid upon myself. I have bartered comfort for 
doubtful luxuries, spurned ease for excitement. I sur- 
rendered myself with zest to degrading pleasures until 
virtue became shabby to my eyes and I grew to be 
ashamed of her. I have one resort. Robert is rich, and 
he must help me out. 

\Enter Servant, c. door l.] 

Serv. Mr. Prentiss Carrington ! 

Reg. Show him in. \Exit Servant. 

[Enter Carrington, c. door.\ 

Car. (l.) Hallo, Bob, old boy, where have you been 
all week ? How did you get over Lady Flora's party, 
aye ? I got dreadfully tipsy that night, fell asleep just 
about morning on a sofa in one of the ante-rooms ; woke 
up to rush down in time to miss the morning drill, and 
get one of those famous knock down lectures from our 
old grizzly bear of a captain, that falls on one's ears like 
the hoarse dolings of a funeral bell. 

Reg. (r.) There you go like a steam-engine. To 
hear you talk one would think that you were ignorant of 
my troubles or that you had no heart. 



6 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

' Car. Sure enough, I had forgotten all about it. Do 
you know really that I sometimes believe I have no 
heart ? That is, when you consider the heart as an organ 
that should throb in unison with other similar affairs, or 
that should sympathize with the joys and sufferings of 
others. Bobbv, it isn't there. I am, if not physically 
speaking, an absolute heartless man. Can you consider 
yourself hurt because I do not feel for you in your afflic- 
tion, when I could learn of the serious illness of an aged 
maiden aunt, one of the numerous nearest relatives I have 
on earth, without the least flutter of excitement — yea, 
even learn of her melancholy demise without any other 
feeling than that of disgust at the contemptible legacy she 
had left me ? Require anything of me, but do not — I 
pray you, do not ask me to feel for you. 

Reg. I have no need of anything now but money. 

Car. Money ? That is something I haven't got. 
You have already helped yourself so liberally from my 
income that I shall have to live on regimental rations for 
six months to come. 

Reg. Why didn't you tell me so ? I thought you were 
well off. 

Car. That depends upon how you take it. Just now 
I am considerably off. I have departed from the trod- 
den path of rectitude in contracting certain debts which 
my ancient and deplorable — I mean adorable uncle- 
Lord Augustus Mandeville was called upon to pay. 
This he has done, but in punishment stopped my 
monthly allowance and banished me from his august 
presence until I have given sufficient proof of having im- 
proved my hitherto graceless career. This puts me in a 
fix, and prevents my soliciting him to help you out of 
this scrape. 

Reg. I shall endeavor to get the assistance of my step- 
brother Robert, whom we expect here from America to- 
day. I hear that he has lots of money. Our equipage 
waits for him at the station now. You must excuse me 
until I get myself a little trimmed up for the occasion. 
Make yourself at home. Mother and Beatrice will be in 
soon. 

Car. Go on, I can take care of myself. {Exit Reg. 
R. door.) How selfish misery makes a man ! He 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 7 

nurses his own affliction and liitle heeds the deeper grief 
that here abides. 

Divine emotion, essential part of joy, 
Heart's inspiration and the soul's decoy, 
Sweet breath of heaven, Love, 'tis thee I feel. 

Yes ! love, 'tis thee I feel ! How does it go on ? 
Firmly and securely deep within my heart, 
There you have entered never to depart. 

I have been trying to soften my soul with poetry, but no 
use ; my feelings are too coarse for that ; my face must 
show it plainly. {Goes r.) Even this looking-glass re- 
flects it. Tell me, thou silent revealer of our physical 
imperfections, what claim have I, an impecunious sub- 
officer in the queen's service, to the regard of this young 
lady, a non-commissioned spirit of grace, an angel by 
virtue's patent and beauty's signature .'' Let me see. 
Handsome I am certainly not, and with my face alone as 
pleader my chances would be rather slim — about as slim 
as my figure. If I couldonly discover in myself a single 
redeeming trait that I could gloss over and embellish so 
as to hang out for a sign. Would it do to tell her ? I 
admit I am not good-looking, neither am I very grace- 
ful, neither am I very sensible, neither have I ever done 
a single thing to recommend me to anybody's favor ; yet 
on the other hand, and to counterbalance all these de- 
fects, I am as poor as a church mouse, and summing it 
all up — a most presumptuous youth. 

[^;?/^r Beatrice, l. door^ 

Beat, (l.) Mr. Carrington ! I was not aware that 
you were making your toilet here, but can't I assist you 
to better accommodations ? 

Car. (r.) I? Me? Oh, no! I make my toilet 
here ? On the contrary — I was not making my toilet 
here. 

Beat. Oh, I see, you were simply admiring yourself 
in the glass. Ah ! how I envy you for having as much 
beauty to admire ! 

Car. Oh, yes ! I must admit, I have beauty to 
admire. 

Beat. Oh, a great deal. 



8 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Car. Certainly a great deal. 

Beat. ^Indignantly?} Where ? 

Car. Before me of course — how else could I mean 
it? 

Beat. That was nicely turned. I appreciate the com- 
pliment. But people wouldn't believe you. 

Car. Wouldn't they ? Now I'd like that — 

Beat. What would you like ? 

Car. That to all the world except myself you would 
appear different than you are. I could bless the man 
that called you ugly. 

Beat. Well upon my word, you have a pronounced 
talent for saying disagreeable things. 

Car. So I have, Miss Churchill — at least when in 
your presence. Just when I try the hardest to make my- 
self pleasant I am sure to make a failure of it. 

Beat. Then it might be a good idea not to try, or 
with this result for a guide, suppose you try the other 
way — try not to please me ; you would perhaps then 
succeed in making yourself somewhat bearable. 

Car. Miss Churchill, can you compass the ambition 
of him who would grasp the unattainable, analyze the 
yearnings of earth-bound man to things celestial and di- 
vine ? Can you imagine the pain the stricken heart must 
feel when it realizes that the object of its devotion is be- 
yond its reach — perhaps beyond its meed ? Can you — 
oh, can you — imagine the desperation — 

\Eiiter Mrs. Churchill, l. dooi- and crosses to c] 

Mrs. C. I am pleased to see you, Mr. Carrington. 
Car. Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Churchill ? 
Mrs. C. Excuse the interruption, but I thought I 
heard the rumble of wheels. 

[Beatrice runs to window. 

Beat. Oh look, mamma ; there he is alighting from 
the carriage. There are two ladies with him, maid and 
mistress it must be ; for one jumps out herself, and he 
assists the other — oh, so tenderly. She seems shy to ad- 
vance, and laughingly he pushes her before him. They 
are coming up the steps, and now they are in the house. 
( To Servant who appears at the door.) Oh, don't stand 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 9 

there like a dummy — don't you see you are to show them 
in at once ? [^jtvV Servant. 

Car. This sun puts my faint light into eclipse. I 
shall very discreetly retire. \Exit c. door, 

[Beatrice rushes to door, theft checks herself. 

[Enter Robert and Margaret, c. door l.] 

Rob. (c.) Come on. No vain attraction draws you 
on to me. I know not who you are, yet something tells 
me I have the right to clasp you in my arms. [Efnbraces 
Beatrice. Then goes to his mother, l. of c, while 
Beatrice salutes Margaret.). But, mother, the word 
of welcome first belongs -to you. We parted coldly, yet 
time, that mellows everything, must soften feelings too. 
Experiences oft v/ill reverence the ties that youth ignores. 
Now teach me, mother, how to be a son — to love my 
father in my father's wife. 

Mrs. C. I give you welcome, Robert, with all my heart. 
I never gave you cause for your estrangement, and con- 
fiding now in your intent, most willingly forget the past. 
This is your sister Beatrice. 

Rob. This is the baby I have so often fondled in my 
arms, shot out in blossoms like a flower o'ernight ! I 
don't forget you, Margaret. Don't be so shy ; this is 
your future home. My ward, mother ; and Beatrice, your 
sister that is to be. {Passes her between the tyo ladies and 
walks R. of c.) 

Beat. I have read of you so much in Robert's letters 
that I feel as if we were already old acquaintances, and 
though I have not even heard your voice, my heart leans 
toward you, and so, unasked, I give you tender of my 
love. Won't you kiss me, Margaret ^ 

Mar. I cannot tell you what I wish to say. 

Beat. Don't say it then. I hunger for a sister such 
as you, and with my whims I yet may tire a nature sweet 
as yours. 

Rob. I have not had occasion, perhaps the inclination, 
to frequent society, and for that reason Margaret's life 
has been very retired. You will, won't you, make up 
for my neglect, as I wish Margaret to see our English 
world and taste its pleasures to their full extent. 



10 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Mrs. C. I shall endeavor to do my duty toward your 
ward, but make no promise that I cannot answer for. 

Mar. I have no claim upon you, Mrs. Churchill, 
and will do my best not to tax your kindness too 
heavily. 

Beat. There, there, sit down. {Seats her on sofa.) 
You must be very tired and hungry too, dear — dear, how 
thoughtless of me ; we have a repast prepared for your 
arrival. I'll run in to see if it is served. I'll not be 
long. [Exit L. doo)\ 

Rob. I've quite forgotten Reginald. Where is he ? 

Mrs. C. (l. of c.) He is dressing, and will be down 
in a moment. 

Rob. It hardly seems like fifteen years since I have left 
this house. Reginald must be quite a young man ? 

Mrs. C, You were but a lad yourself when you left 
home. What a change fifteen years can make ! You 
must have had great troubles, for you look above your 
age, Robert. If I mistake not, you are within a month 
of thirty-six. 

Rob. Thirty-six ! so old ; and only thirt3-3ix. I've 
been a gambler, mother. I've staked my years for for- 
tune and won some gold and more gray hairs. See, 
mother, the livery of decay already streaks these temples. 

[Enter Servant, c] 

Ser. There's a individual down-stairs as says he has 
a message for Mr. Churchill. 

Mrs. C. Why did you not take it from him and bring 
it in ? 

Ser. I did ask him for it, ma'am, but he says he was 
told to give it to Mr. Robert Churchill in person and 
must obey instructions. 

Rob. Perhaps it is a cablegram from America. I shall 
see what the man wants. {To Servant.) Lead the 
way. [Exeunt Robert and Servant. 

Mrs. C. The long and tedious voyage, with its attend- 
ant sickness, is a great trial ; still such an attentive com- 
panion as Robert must have relieved many of the incon- 
veniences of travel. 

Mar. {Rising.) Indeed, Mrs. Churchill, you do not 
know how good Robert is. He seems to know my every 



ROBERT CHURCHILL.' ii 

want and wish and take delight to shame me with his 
own great unselfishness. 

Mrs. C. This sounds nice ; so much disinterested love 
on one side, and such profound appreciation on the 
other. It is like the story of Paul and Virginia. 

Mar. Do you find our attachment so singular ? 

Mrs. C. Oh no, not at all — only worldly minded people 
are likely to sneer at it ; and if you are an example, 1 
might conclude that the American are much less so- 
phisticated than our average English ladies. 

Mar. Why should the world deride the trust a noble 
man inspires in woman's heart ? 

Mrs. C. You appear to know little of the world as yet. 
We must be very careful. Society is naturally sus- 
picious, and actions that seem proper to ourselves may 
give rise to unpleasant reports. 

Mar. Should we repress our better natures because 
there are some who seek an evil motive in the purest and 
most generous deed ? 

Mrs. C. You misunderstand. I shall explain my 
meaning better some other time. Here comes Reginald. 

YEnter Reginald, r. door.^^ 

Reg. Where is Robert ? This must be his ward. 

Mrs. C. (c.) Miss Margaret Hastings, my son, Mr. 
Reginald Churchill. 

Reg. (r. Aside). By Jove ! but she's a beauty — no 
wonder Robert thinks so much of her. {Loud.) You 
must call me Reginald, for I intend to take advantage of 
our coming intiiiiacy and call you Margaret at once. 

(Mrs. Q. coughs as if to interrupt hi^n., and gives him a 
reproving look^ ivhich Margaret notices. 

\^E7iter Beatrice, l. door.^ 

Beat. Dinner is waiting. Come, Margaret ; we have 
kept you fasting too long already. Where has Robert 
gone ? 

YEnter Robert, c. bearing a letter. \ 

Reg. {Advancing to hini^ c.) Robert, my brother, I 
am glad to see you home again. 

Rob. (c. Disregarding Reginald's t)roffered hajid^ 
tenders hi?n letter coldly.) Read ! 



12 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Mar. (l. c.) What makes you look so pale, Robert ? 
Your hand feels cold as ice. 

Rob. {IVhisperifig to Reginald.) To what associa- 
tions have you sunk ? How came you to contract such 
debts ? 

Reg. {Aside.) 'Tis my Mephisto's hand again. He 
wants the money due him, or threatens to bring suit and 
so disgrace me. 

Mrs. C. (r.) Well, let us dine. Are you coming 
in ? Why, what is the matter ? Tell me, Reginald, 
what does this mean ? 

Reg. What does it mean ? How should I know ? 

Mrs. C. There is some evil that impends that both 
your faces show. 

Rob. Don't be too hasty. 

Mrs. C. Then let me see this letter ; if it concerns 
you, Reginald, it must concern me too. 

Reg. It is not for me. 

Mrs. C. For whom, then ? 

Reg. For whom is it "^ It is addressed to you, 
brother. {Enfrcati/igly.) Brother, it belongs to you. 

Rob. To me ? {Loia.) So may it be {lotm) : it is for 
me. Come, you must go with me to London — straight. 

Beat. What ! without the dinner ? Poor Margaret, 
you have a strange reception. 

End of Act I. 



ACT II. 

SCENE. — Ball at the Percival mansion. An elegant 
apart nietit with c. doors and set door L. 2 E. Chairs., 
sofa^ etc. 

[Enter Mrs. Churchill and Lady Dora Percival, 

L. U. E.] 

Dora, (l.) It is getting late ; the guests are all 
assembled, and Robert is not here yet. I wonder what 
can be keeping him so long, 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 13 

Mrs. C. (r.) He promised to return at eight. There 
is some important business that takes him frequently to 
London, though what it is I never can imagine. 

Dora. Then we must go on without him. Aunty, 
why did you bring that girl with you ? I thought I 
showed her plainly by my looks that I do not care for her 
society. 

Mrs. C. You mean Margaret Hastings ? I could not 
slight her : that would offend Robert. 

Dora. He must think a great deal of her. 

Mrs. C. Very much, it seems ! 

Dora. She is of the kind that can ingratiate themselves 
with such dupes as he. 

Mrs. C. She has not impressed you favorably. 

Dora. She cannot deceive me with those soft eyes 
which shrink from every gaze. . 

Mrs. C. Her influence with Robert is very strong. 

Dora. Well, I can use the same arts she does, and 
once I feel myself the mistress there, I'll show her what 
she least expects. {Music sou/ids.) Listen ! the music 
is striking up. Let us go in. [Exit l. u. e. 

[Enter Robert, r, u. e.] 

Rob. This Thomas Wrexford is a bold, shrewd fellow. 
I could do nothing with him. However, I left the 
whole matter to my agent, who will checkmate the 
scoundrel's designs for the present, and possibly induce 
him to sign'off his claim on payment of part of the 
amount. {Looks l. u. e. while piittijig on his gloves.) 
The hall is brilliantly lit up. I wonder if I shall feel 
myself at ease in such a dazzling crowd. Already the 
music seems to soften my reflection, and a strange weird 
feeling steals over me. How sweet the low impressive 
strain upon our fervent fancies rings, what grand effects 
does it attain, attuned to harmony within. It blossoms 
from the heart into the world, thoughts sink in dreams 
and spring outstrips its season. We see it beaming in 
the happy smile, glistening in affection's tears, and 
feel its thrilling in the kiss. Thou all-inspiring melody, 
under thy influence faith becomes holier still, and love 
grows more divine. 



14 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

[^;^/^r Reginald, l. u. e., who walks slowly up behind 

hini.\ 

Reg. (l.) Robert ! 

Rob. (Turtis impatiently.) Well, what is it now ? 

Reg. What have you done in London ? You do not 
know my anxiety — how uneasy and wretched I feel. 

Rob. This is not the place to talk about it. 1 must 
go in. \^Exit l. 2 e. 

Reg. He treats me like a criminal. [Exit l. 2 e. 

[Enter Lord Mandeville and Lady Churchill, 

L. u. E.] 

Mrs. C. (l.) You see, Lady Dora's father and Rob- 
ert's were cousins. Robert was a favorite of Lord Per- 
cival, and spent most of his vacation at his uncle's house. 
The two children were attached to each other in spite of 
the difference in their ages. In fact, it was understood 
that they were eventually to become a pair, and this was 
almost a compact between the parents, and my husband's 
dearest wish expressed when on his dying bed. 

Man. (r.) And so this party is in honor of your 
son's return. Beautiful thought ! He swam the ocean 
to meet his love, like another Leander to his Hero. 
Byron doubts the story. Do you believe in ancient 
mythology, Mrs. Churchill ? 

Mrs. C. I do not believe in talking so much about it, 
Lord Mandeville. If I am not mistaken you have asked 
me that question about every time we have met. 

Man. Did I indeed "^ What a remarkable coincidence 
that is ! We philosophers are such absent - minded 
people. You have heard the story about La Fontaine, 
the author of the Fables, setting out to visit a friend at 
whose funeral he had been only a few days before .'' 

Mrs. C. I think your lordship has also kindly enter- 
tained me with that story before. 

Man, Well, then, as another illustration, have I ever 
in the strain of absent-mindedness alluded to the affec- 
tion that I entertain for your daughter, Miss Beatrice ? 

Mrs. C. If I recollect aright, your lordship has alluded 
to it— only in moments of abstraction, of course. I beg 
your pardon, had we not better return to the ball-room ? 

Man. Not yet, if you please ; we are just getting 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 15 

nicely to the point of our conference. It is of your 
daughter I wish to speak. For the first time in the 
course of my existence I have felt the sting of Cupid's 
arrow. Madam, I love your daughter so much, as much 
—as I hate my nephew. Madame, do you know what it 
is to have a designing relat ve ; one whose only aim in 
life apparently is to destroy his uncle's peace and wrestle 
with the rotundity of his pocket-book .? 

Mrs. C. It seems your lordship is again slightly wan- 
dering from the subject. 

Man. Let me explain. {Goes r. with her.) 

{^Enter Carrington, l. u. e., and remains back.'] 

Mrs. C. Not so loud ; some one is coming — this way. 

Car. {Sotto voce.) I was born under an unlucky star. 
I have not been able to come near Beatrice once to-night. 
Always some one to get ahead of me. (Seeing Mande- 
viLLE 7vith Mrs. C.) I wonder if the old cad is making 
love to Mrs. Churchill? 

Man. I admit that I want to spoil the young profli- 
gate's chances of becoming my heir ; but the love I bear 
your daughter is as sincere as the passion the Trajan 
Troilus felt for his Cressida. 

Mrs. C. Your lordship can become quite eloquent on 
occasions. 

Man. Remember 'tis love that gives me inspiration. 

Car. {Sotto voce.) Is it ? I shouldn't judge so if the 
nose is any indication. 

Man. You will assist me in gaining your daughter's 
hand } 

Car. [Sotto voce.) What ! the daughter ? Heavens, 
I faint ! 

Mrs. C. Your lordship's proposal is an honor both 
to my daughter and myself. 

Car. {Sotto voce.) And a death-blow to me. 

Man. Madam, you will make me the happiest man in 
all England. 

Car. {Sotto voce.) And me the most miserable. 
\_Enter Beatrice ^;z^ Sir Gladwold, l. u. e.] 

Beat. {To Gladwold.) I must insist upon your 
leaving me. I would not for the world deprive the other 
ladies of such an admirable partner. {Both down l.) 



i6 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Car. ^Sotto voce.) With this man still. Oh, I shall 
be revenged ; from this moment I am at war with the 
whole world. 

Glad. Well, if I must, though I assure you I shall 
treasure up these brief moments of our conversation as 
the happiest of my existence. Au revoir. \^Exit. 

Car. {Sottovoce.). Go, unsuspecting youth, thy doom 
is sealed. 

Beat, (l.) Here you are, mother, and you too. Lord 
Mandeville. This is gallant indeed. Have you forgot- 
ten ? — the next is our dance. 

Man. Did Romeo forget his Juliet? Mrs. Churchill, 
will we not proceed together to the ball-room ? 

Car. {Sotto voce.) This is my last chance — now or 
never ! {Crosses down l. of Beatrice, Loud.) I hope 
I don't intrude. Miss Beatrice, I have awaited this op- 
portunity all evening. Can I offer you my arm ? 

Beat. Certainly, sir ; both, if you choose, though I 
am very sorry to say I cannot accept. I am engaged for 
this dance. 

Car. Then I shall just put my name down for the 
next. 

Beat. Excuse me, my list is full. 
Car. Won't you give me any chance at all ? 
Beat. You should have applied earlier, sir. I'm not 
to be kept for a reserve. {To Mandeville.) The sets 
are forming ; let us go in. 
Car. But allow me — 

Man. Don't you see the young lady will have noth- 
ing to do with you ? How dare you be so persistent ? 
{Gets between the two ladies and offejs his arins.) 

Car. Remember, uncle, you are speaking to a reput- 
able person. 

Man. {Scornfully .) For whom I've paid some very 
disreputable debts. I drop you, sir, to sink to the level 
to which you belong. \^Exit with ladies., l. u. e. 

Car. (c.) The poet Burns once distended upon the 
great advantage it would be to us, to see ourselves as 
others see us. I don't see the point. I know that when- 
ever people have volunteered to explain to me the light 
in which they saw me, I never had particular reasons to 
feel grateful for their kindness. I think it best not to know 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 17 

what others think about us. Human happiness consists 
mainly in ignoring defects. What matters the lack of 
wealth if we feel not the want of it ? or what the luxuries 
we do not miss ? There is nothing so cruel in reverses, 
if they do not jar against susceptibilities ; and that mis- 
fortune only is to be pitied which, if not painful, still 
worries its sensitive victim. I don't care now if I have 
to remain a bachelor, for I think that love is a sham. 
How many have made the observation that a clergyman, 
a year, and a baby generally suffice to dispel all the 
romance there is in love. After marriage kisses grow 
stale, lodge nights come into play, and the rhapsodies 
that erst did charm the lover's ear, now only serve to 
drown the midnight mewlings of incipient belles and 
beaux. Here comes that puppy Gladwold. I shall wreak 
on him my righteous rage. Oh ! 1 shall get even with 
him. 

\Ente7- Gladwold, l. 2 e.] 

Glad, (l.) Hallo, Prentiss ! what are you doing here ? 
— wasting your most valuable time. Don't be sulky ; 
shake, old boy. .{Takes Carrington's 7/^;?^/.) 

Car. I always like to shake the hand of a sensible 
man. 

Glad. Ah, thank you ! thank you ! 

Car. And I grieve to say that on this occasion my 
desire is not gratified. 

Glad. Oh ! that's a joke. Ha ! ha ! By the way, 
old boy, did you notice that American girl Miss Hast- 
ings ? — isn't that her name ? Jupiter, ain't she a beauty ? 

Car. ] have noticed you hanging to Miss Churchill's 
side all evening, looking for all the world just like a 
poodle-dog. 

Glad. I say, this is too much. I don't want you to 
confound me with a poodle-dog. 

Car. All right ; I confound you without the poodle- 
dog. 

Glad. That will do ; say no more. I accept your 
apology. I know every feller feels a little touchy when he 
is afraid another feller will cut him out with a young 
lady. Let's go empty a bottle wine. That'll cheer you 
up a bit, old boy. {Drawi?ig him on.) 



1 8 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Car. I'm bound to be thwarted at every turn. 

\Exeiint both, l. 2. e. 

\Enter Robert «;z^/ Dora, l. u. e.] 

Rob. Come, Dora, let us rest here awhile; my brain's 
awhirl and my head sways as with the motion of the 
leader's baton. 

Dora, (l.) I am proud of you, cousin, moving like 
a king among the whole assemblage. I did not think 
that in America you could have time to keep in burnish 
all the social arts that you have displayed to-night. 

Rob. Leave compliments to the vain. See, I hold 
you far above such flattery. When conversation's source 
gives out, praise comes readiest to the tongue. We are 
prone to use it far too wantonly, and much abuse has 
made it meaningless. Let us forget the ball-room for a 
moment ; there are some pictures of the past now in my 
mind, in which you share. You cannot remember them. 

Dora. Oh, but I do, though memory dimly still re- 
flects them. I was seven years old when you left, and 
could retain impressions. 

Rob. Do you remember how you followed me wher- 
ever I went ? 

Dora. You must have studied botany at the time, for 
then you awed me with those strange names you gave to 
the wild plants and common herbs that grow profusely 
in our fields. 

Rob. And since then fifteen years ha.veleft their print 
upon me. 

Dora. How time flies ! 

Rob. Time flies ? Not so, cousin ! not so ! Time 
stays ! 'Tis we alone that go. The hours that strike 
mark but the measure of our lives. If youth does feel 
itself immortal, we soon perceive the bounds of our 
horizon, and maturity already lies in the shadow of the 
night that must end all. Like summer fruit, we ripen 
only to decay. 

Dora. This is a sad philosophy to teach. Pray 
heaven, what would become of us if we all took such 
sombre, melancholy views of life. 

Rob. You are right, Dora ; it is an evil mood that 
leads to such deep thoughts. We only mar our peace of 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 19 

mind do we dissect existence and view with cynic eyes 
the brief delusive pleasures it affords. For like the 
painted scenes and trappings of the stage, we break the 
charm if we do scan too closely. When deception flies 
the zest of life goes with it. 

Dora. No doubt all ends the same. Then isn't it a 
pity that we can't make of our short existence one round 
of pleasure and enjoyment ? 

Rob. Not so ; we'd tire of day were it to last too long.' 
So constant ease and constant flowers and smiling skies 
harmonize into monotony and lull to sleep the better, 
wilder, grander portions of our nature. But hark ! the 
music ceases and the dance is over. We shall be dis- 
turbed here, and I have some things yet to tell you. Let 
us retire toward that recess yonder. ' {Both walk toward 

R..U. E.) 

[Enter Margaret, l. u. e.] 

Mar. There he goes with that imperiouo beauty whose 
studied welcome has strangely chilled me through and 
through. I cannot control this restlessness. What 
makes my heart so heavy ? See how he stands there ob- 
livious of all but her beside him ! 

{Enter Reginald, l. 2 e., with bouquet. '\ 

Reg. (l.) Why, Margaret, I have been looking for 
you everywhere. See this bouquet I have brought you 
— fresh plucked and bound. 

Mar. (r. Not noticing Reginald. Loiv.) How 
affectionately he bends over her ! 

Reg. Now this is cruel, Margaret ; you do not even 
thank me for this gift I took such trouble to procure. 

Mar. I am sure I appreciate the present very much. 

Reg. How constrainedly you speak ! Have I offended 
you ? 

Mar. Oh no. 

Reg. I declare, Margaret, you look pale ; your hand 
trembles in my grasp. 

Mar. [Aside.) I fear my feelings have betrayed me. 

Reg. Let me lead you to this chair. Tell me what is 
the matter ? 

Mar. Nothing I a slight dizziness from dancing. I 
shall soon be better. 



20 R0BEK7' CIIURCrilLL. 

Reg. I'll call mother in. 

Mar. I beg of you send no one. I had rather be left 
alone Please go. 

Reg. I see you want to get rid of me. Well, have it 
as you wish. \^Exit Reginald, l. u. e. 

Mar. I am sorr)' I sent him away. I am not fit for 
the ball-room yet, or I would follow him. [Goes up.) 
Still there ? I must compose myself. {Stands leaning 
against chair down L.) 

Rob. {To Dora in background}) It was my father's 
wish that brought me back to England and to you. Tell 
me, have I come too late ? 

Mar. How fervently he speaks, yet not a word can I 
distinguish. Oh, I cannot avert my eyes.. 

Rob. My sole ambition was the fulfilment of his one 
dying hope. I tried to make myself worthy of you, and 
see, of all my father's heritage 1 have relinquished every- 
thing but you. 

Mar. He clasps her to him. Oh ! {Chair falls. 
Robert a?id T)ora come fortvard?) 

Rob. (c.) Margaret! weeping! Has any one in this 
house dared to offend you ? 

xVEar. (l.) No ! no ! {Sobbing^ 

Rob. There, compose yourself. I left you in charge 
of Reginald. Where is he ? 

Dora. The poor girl is shy. Don't weep, dear. Tell 
me what ails you. The company is strange to her and 
the excess of new emotions find their vent in tears. 

\^Enter Reginald, l. u. e.] 

Rob. Reginald, what does this mean ? How came 
Margaret to be here alone ? 

Reg. I have just returned for her. She complain- 
ed of dizziness and begged me to leave her here 
awhile. 

Dora. h\\ this only excites her more. Neither of you 
can be of service here. The guests will remark our ab- 
sence. Better go in while 1 remain with her. 

Rob. Shall I leave you, Margaret ? 

Mar. Please do. 

Rob. {To Reginald.) Well, then, come. Are you 
sure no one has offended her } 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 21 

Reg. Do you think I would allow it ? 

\Exeunt both, l. u. e. 

Dora. So, my lady, you have been playing the eaves- 
dropper. I have suspected you, and now detected you. 
You may well lie there and hide your confusion in affected 
tears. Oh ! {E/ite?- Carrington, l. u. e.) you need 
not answer, for your guilt is plain. 

Car. {Sottovoce.) Hallo ! what's up now I wonder. 
My lady postures like a vengeful Amazon. 

Dora. I'll feed your jealousy. Robert has offered me 
his heart, which I can accept or spurn just as I choose. 
What secret link is there between you that you should 
dog his footsteps like a spy. Are you so hardened that 
you can brave all shame, all modest}'-, by giving public 
exhibition of your passion for a man who keeps you near 
him but on sufferance. Tell me, I insist ; for I have a 
right to know, what is, what has Robert Churchill been 
to you ? 

Car, {Stepping betw.een them.) As I notice the young 
lady addressed is not now in position to answer, I shall 
make bold to explain that Mr. Robert Churchill is, was, 
or has been Miss Hasting's guardian legal and otherwise. 

Dora. 1 did not know, sir, that you were listening. 

Car. Nothing I have heard can lower my estimation 
of your ladyship in the least. 

Dora. Mr. Carrington, this is impertinent, and if I 
choose — 

Car. To commit those trifling breaches upon ordinary 
hospitality, it is certainly wrong of a mere guest to spoil 
such hilarious freaks. 

YEnte?^ Mrs. Churchill, Beatrice, and Mandeville. 
Beatrice runs over to where Margaret is kneeling 
with her head buried in' a sofa.^ 

Mrs. C. (r. ^/ Dora.) Dora, my dear, this is neglect- 
ing your duties as a hostess. I must certainly reprove 
you. Good gracious, what is the meaning of this 
scene ? No one answers. Will not you speak, Mr. 
Carrington ? 

Car. (c.) Oh, it is nothing — a little dispute. 

Mrs. C. a dispute ? What was it ? 

Car. About titles and nobility. 



22 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Mrs. C. What has Miss Hastings to do with nobility ? 
I never heard of such a thing as rank in America. 

Car, But they have a title that all respect and vene- 
rate, which in itself means more than countess, 
marchioness, duchess, princess, or even queen. 

Mrs. C. And what is that ? 

Car. Just what Miss Hastings is — a lady. 

Man. The boy is absolutely mad. 

End of Act H. 



ACT HI. 

SCENE — Room in Churchill's house. Door in flat 
and set door in L. 2 e. A writing-desk and large arm- 
chair., R. 2 E., and several chairs at back. Robert 
discovered seated at desk. 

Rob. Five thousand pounds all squandered within six 
months ! What a fortune that once would have seemed 
to me ! My agent writes me from London that he could 
contest the debt, which, while it would lay bare the vil- 
lain, would not save Reginald from disgrace. I gave Reg- 
inald to understand that it would be impossible for me 
to give the entire sum. Yet if he could so manage as to 
postpone the note due in a week, arrange it in part pay- 
ments, say at three, or six, or nine, or twelve months' 
or two years' interval, I could — that is, I thought I 
could — perhaps I would be able to assist him. And in 
this wise I mean to scourge him with suspense and make 
his conscience whip him back into the proper road. 

[^;//^r Reginald, door flat. ^^ 

Reg. Good morning, brother. 

Rob. Good morning, Reginald. {Looks at his watch. ^ 
Nine o'clock and you up already. What is the matter ? 
Have you turned over a new leaf ? Come, you are for- 
getting the role of a young aristocrat. 

Reg. (l.) Always the cynic. When will you com- 
mence thinking me capable of something serious. Once 



ROBERT CHURCHILL, 23 

I'm out of this scrape, I'll show you what sort of a man 
I am. 

Rob. What sort of a man ? Why, of the sort that all 
men are, brought up as you have been. I have heard of 
a certain lordling, to whom idleness became so distaste- 
ful that if he lost one day's work he couldn't do anything 
for a week to get over it. {Laughing.) 

Reg. Laugh, if you please. I sha'n't resent your 
sarcasms now. It will be different some time. I have 
been planning out a new career for myself. 

Rob. Yes, and you will be kept so busy planning that 
you won't have time to accomplish anything. You are 
too ready with your promises. Don't grow impatient ; 
I know you have come for a purpose. Well, proceed ; 
what is it ? 

Reg. You know as well as I do what is in my mind. 
The debt troubles me ; I am sick and worried ; and yet 
you talk as if you took no interest in me at all. 

Rob. I said I would assist you all I can ; and do you 
think by that I would deprive myself of what I need to 
help you play the squanderer ? 

Reg. I thought you were rich — as rich as Croesus. 

Rob. Who told you so ? And were I rich, and were 
that money but a tittle of my fortune, I would not pay 
the debt. The sin that you are guilty of should not be 
so easily condoned ; where rebuke is the only interdiction 
vice grows arrogant and strong. 

Reg. But the thing is done. What shall I do ? 

Rob. I will try to help you ; only let this matter rest, 
and give me time to work it out. By the way, how is it 
all his letters are addressed in my name, to Robert 
Churchill ? 

Reg. Oh, that is easily explained. They all call me 
Bob at college and in London, and so he naturally sup- 
posed that my name is Robert. Then I can count on 
your assistance ? 

Rob. As I have told you, yes. 

Reg. There is something else that has awakened in 
me the desire to improve myself. It is but lately that I 
have felt it, and it has stolen over me slowly and un- 
awares. I'll make a confident of you. Brother, I am in 
love with Margaret, 



24 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Rob. {Restrai?iedly.) I have noticed it. 

Reg. You seem displeased. 

Rob. And Margaret returns your love ? 

Reg. What though her heart be free, with your con- 
sent and everything in my favor should I not win her ? 

Rob. {Slowly.) Why should you not? Why should 
you not ? 

Reg. How you look at me. Do you object ? I shall 
make myself worthy of her. I'll prove to you that I 
have that within me — 

Rob. There, that will do. I know what you would 
say. Leave me now. I have a great deal to do. 

Reg. Not before you promise that you won't disparage 
me with Margaret. 

Rob. I won't. Now go. {Exit 'Kegii^m.t>^ door flat.) 
I must find him worthy of her ere I can commit the 
prize to him. At some time I must relinquish her. 
What is in that that I should dread so much ? I had best 
leave that strain, for it brings thoughts I feel ashamed to 
own. Why is it that when all nature seems pandering to 
our taste, we surfeit of its blessings ? We have ease and 
court trouble ; we have sufficient, yet crave excess. 
Each wish fulfilled bears some new wish more fiercely 
sought, much harder to be reached. Still will we make 
ourselves unhappy by striving for what we cannot have, 
or sigh for that which 'twere better not to gain. I have 
looked forward to this meeting with Dora as yearns the 
soul for paradise. Her love was my life's dream. Yet 
now that I seem to have attained it I do not feel the joy 
I thought I would, and every nearer step to her, in 
stronger outline brings another picture to my mind. 
{Enter Mrs. Churchill, l. 2 e.) Good morning, 
mother. When did yon come in ? 

Mrs. C. Just now. Are you busy ? 

Rob. Have you anything to tell me ? 

Mrs. C. Yes. 

Rob. Something to interest me ? 

Mrs. C. Something that concerns you. 

Rob. Take this cozy arm-chair. Never mind. I'll 
draw up another seat. Now, what is it ? 

Mrs. C. When your poor father died leaving me with 
less than moderate means, I strove hard and endured 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 25 

everything for my children, in the hope that they would 
some day repay me for my care, and make my old age 
happy in their honor and prosperity. 

Rob. All of which I trust will be fulfilled. 

Mrs. C. While you had separated yourself from us, and 
found your fortune in another country, I believed that 
the futire and prestige of our family in England rested 
upon Reginald, and hoped that if I could secure him 
some rich and influential alliance he could gain a field 
for his capabilities, and shed new lustre upon our decay- 
ing house. 

Rob. So instead of spurring him to work his way up 
by his own endeavors, you want him to marry rich, and 
forfeit his manliness and self-esteem for a dependent 
ease and unrespected honors ? How plausible an in- 
terested tongue can make the meanest acts appear ! 
Here is fortune-hunting made to look respectable. 

Mrs C. You forget;, Robert, that this is not America, 
and it is almost impossible for a young man without 
means to gain the foothold of success. 

Rob. Well, and what is the drift of all this ? 

Mrs. C. Simply that with your arrival an obstacle has 
arisen that threatens to upset my hopes, and spoil Regi- 
nald's career. 

Rob. Be more plain. What do you mean ? 

Mrs. C. I am displeased with the attention Reginald 
is paying to Margaret. 1 fear — 

Rob. Be careful, mother ; Margaret is my ward, and 
even from you I will not brook a word against her. 

Mrs. C. But remember her lineage and ours. 

Rob. Her father left her an untarnished name. What 
more could he do ? 

Mrs. C. {Sfteeringly.) An actor's daughter ! 

Rob. An actor's daughter ! The indignity lies in the 
reproach, not in the expression. A good actor is a good 
preacher, and his pulpit is the stage. Not so pretentious 
as he that is ordained, yet often more effective. There's 
a religion, mother, one cannot learn in church — a charity 
no doctrine can convey. At the theatre, those temples 
to human genius built, we learn at first all that the tender 
heart may feel and bear, the height to which the soul 
can soar. And those who minister at that shrine, who 



26 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

of themselves can make the faithful picture of some great 
mind's dream, may well lay claim to our respect— to all 
the dignity of art. 

Mrs. C. I did not intend to disparage the man, nor 
his profession. You force me to speak plainly. I have 
seen enough of aspiring poverty, and if I have my way, 
when Reginald marries, he will marry rich. 

Rob. {Aside. )^ Ah, ha ! I should have known as 
much : all that is meant by lineage, pride, ambition, the 
foothold ©f success — all that means money. (Loud.) 
Margaret is an heiress. She will inherit a valuable estate. 

Mrs. C. I thought her father died indigent. 

Rob. Not all actors die poor. Her father in his time 
was immensely rich — (aside) in hopes. Poor fellow, he left 
scarce means enough to bury him. 

Mrs. C. I never heard a word of this. 

Rob. That is because the property is all entered in my 
name, in trust for her. 

Mrs. C. Poor girl ! I have been mistaken in her. 

Rob. (Aside.) Mammon works wonders. I would 
buy your happiness, Margaret, even at the cost of my 
own. {Loud.) ■ You must excuse me now. I had for- 
gotten an urgent transaction I have to-day in London, 
and the train leaves in a few minutes. (Arises and crosses 
to L.) 

Mrs. C. Dora and Lord Mandeville promised to be 
here. When will you return ? 

Rob. This evening. [Exit door in flat. 

Mrs. C. (c.) There is some mystery about him. Is 
he rich or poor ? He never speaks about himself. All 
that I know is that he lives well and spends his money 
freely. I can t understand what there was that so dis- 
turbed him in that message he received the day of his 
arrival here. -{Looks over desk.) I am sure he has taken 
Reginald in his confidence, yet I cannot get a word from 
him either. I have ferreted his papers every opportunity 
I had, but could discover nothing. Still, I am convinced 
there is something wrong, (Picks up a letter.) Let me 
see what this is? (Reads.) "Mr. Robert Churchill: 
You have delayed me too long with idle excuses. I re- 
fuse to be deceived any loriger. If you try, you can 
easily obtain the money from your relatives, and unless 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 27 

you do so you will compel me to proceed against you. 
I can have you condemned in any country to which you 
may escape. Remember you have obtained the money 
from me through your fraudulent pretensions to an estate 
which I have since discovered to be yours only in name. 
1 only wait until this matter is settled to return to 
America, and must see you at once on receipt of this. 
(signed) I'homas Wrexford." Why that is just what 
Robert told me ; now iny suspicions are confirmed. 
Ah! who comes here ? i^Hides letter}) 

[Enter Margaret, l. 2 e.] 

Mar. (l.) Is Robert here ? 

Mrs. C. (r.) No ; he has just left for London. 
(Margaret turns to go.) Stay a moment. 

Mar. Have you anything to tell me, Mrs. Churchill ? 

Mrs. C. You should not be so shy of me, my child. I 
wanted to tell you I am sorry to see you have taken 
Dora's hasty words of that night to heart. 

Mar. It is not easy to forget. 

Mrs. C. Yet now that she has confessed herself in the 
wrong and asked your forgiveness, you should not repel 
her advances. 

Mar. I do not, Mrs. Churchill, though in truth I 
would rather avoid them. 1 will not willingly come in 
her way again. 

Mrs. C. Don't say that, for you may grow to like her 
yet. You see love is always suspicious, and under like 
circumstances women are apt Jo make some foolish trifle 
the cause for jealousy. 

Mar. The proud and beautiful Lady Percival jealous 
of a poor orphan girl ? Oh no ! 

Mrs. C. Not as poor as you say, nor as unpretentious 
as you think. I know your affection for Robert is as 
pure as it is sincere. You are ignorant of the world, 
my child, and don't know what little will give rise to 
evil thoughts. 

Mar. That is so, Mrs. Churchill, though I doubted it 
before. Lady Dora has more right to Robert than I. I 
shall try hard — very hard — to school myself, and not let 
my gratitude and actions toward him ever offend her 
again. 



28 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Mrs. C. That is a noble resolution. Keep yourself 
distant as propriety demands. See here comes some one 
who loves you more sincerely than ever Robert did. 

\^Enter Reginald, door in flat. ^ 

Reg. (l. ^/Margaret.) Here you are ! Now this 
is a neat way to do. I've had the horses saddled these 
two hours for the gallop you wanted to take with me this 
morning. 

Mar. I did not promise to go. I told you I would 
consider it, and I had rather — 

Reg. Tush, tush ! I can't afford to let you off this 
time, my lady. The fields look so green and the weather 
is so inviting, that I really am impatient to be out. Be- 
sides, I know what you can do on horseback, and I am 
just in the humor to try your skill. 

Mrs. C. Don't refuse him, my dear. The exercise 
will do you good. Come, I'll help you on with your 
riding habit. {Crosses ivith Margaret to door l. 2 e.) 

Mar. Well, if I must. 

Reg. Why certainly you must. [Exeunt all., l. 2 e. 

\Enter Carrington and Beatrice, door in flat. ^ 

Beat, (r.) Let me tell you, sir, I don't believe a 
word of what you say. Why didn't you come to me the 
night of the ball instead of leaving me to flirt with any- 
body that would only favor you with a glance ? 

Car. (l.) But won't you listen ? 

Beat. Not one word, sir ! I'm not the one to be 
flattered and cajoled when the humor offers, only to be 
slighted at pleasure. 

Car. I would only be too happy to think that you 
care for my attention. 

Beat. Indeed ; then I shall make you happy by let- 
ting you know that I care to have your attention directed 
toward, others. So you let me alone. 

Car. I would creep into the furthermost corners of 
the earth if I knew you desired it. 

Beat. Oh ! that would be unnecessary. I believe I 
could feel myself very comfortable, even if I knew you 
were barely out of sight. 

Car. And is it thus you slight my affection ? I have 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 29 

laid my heart at your feet and you ruthlessly trample 
upon it. Yet though your sentence be the crushing of 
my hopes, the funeral knell to my ambition, and though 
your undeserved treatment fret me to an early grave, yet, 
oh, thrice cruel beauty ! can I bear thee no resentment, 
and dying bless thee still. 

Beat. Young man, you waste your talents here. Try 
it on elsewhere. You may find some one more sus- 
ceptible. 

Car. Since that confounded uncle of mine came unto 
this house, my influence is spoiled. 

Beat. Don't swear, sir ! What have I to do with 
your uncle ? 

Car. You don't pretend to be ignorant of his inten- 
tions, do you ? 

Beat. I don't know anything about his intentions, 
and they don't concern you. He has better manners 
than you have. 

Car. What ! you would compare that old eccentric 
skinflint with me ? 

Beat. You should be ashamed to speak in that way 
of your uncle, sir. 

Car. Haven't I a right to speak of my own uncle as 
I please ? But I say, Beatrice, you can't really be in 
earnest to listen to the old cad ; he is three or four times 
your age, gray as a bat, and was a thriving candidate for 
baldheadtorial honors ever since I knew him. Do be 
reasonable, won't you ? It seems that your aversion 
is to me like the North Pole — I can never get around 
it. The more I try to please you, the less you like me 
for it. 

Beat. That is because you deserve it. What have 
you ever done that I should treat you otherwise. Such 
impromptu pleadings as you make are never sincerely 
meant. 

Car. Shall I give it to you in writing — so that there's 
no mistake about it ? 

Beat. Well, that might be better if it were poetry, for 
instance. 

Car. Oh, poetry, I've written lots of it in my timie. 
I know a particular poem, one that took me I know not 
how long to plan ; one week to write, another week to 



30 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

arrange it, and a whole month to get it to a perceptible 
rhyme. I haven't had time to attend to the metre yet. 

Beat. Let me have it. 

Car. You won't mind if you find your name mixed 
up in it ? 

Beat. Not too much. 

Car. Just a little ? 

Beat. Well. 

Car. It commences — now I'm not sure that I have it 
properly memorized. But that does not make much 
difference. You see it is of the kind of poems wherein 
those parts that are left out are always best appreciated. 
And to show you how anxious I am to gratify you, I shall 
abstain from inflicting any of it upon you. See what 
great sacrifices I am willing to make for you. 

Beat. How very considerate ! But you have excited 
my curiosity. Just recite a portion of it. 

Car. Weil. 

The ice is cold, the sun is hot, 
The rose is red, but the lily is not. 
On the contrary, it is white. 
Oh dost thou then my love requite ? 

Joy is not joy, nor is bliss bliss 

Where -thou art not, when thy sweet face I miss 

I feel as it were dejected. 

Art thou — art thou likewise — affected — 

Affected — that doesn't fit in there quite, does it ? but 
then it rhymes amazingly. Now some people might ob- 
ject because the sense is a little obscure ; but you see we 
poets don't look to that at all — the* rhyme is the main 
question. Shall I continue ? 

Beat. Do you know any more like that ? 

Car. a great deal more. 

Beat. And will you recite it all now ? 

Car. Yes, certainly, if you like. 

Beat. How long will it take you ? 

Car. About an hour or so. 

Beat. Dear me, how apropos ; this will just give me 
sufficient time to finish my sewing in the arbor. Be sure 
you get done by the time I come back. Au revoir. 

\^Exit door in flat. 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 31 

Car. My effort has certainly had an astonishing effect. 
Verily the world's a stage, and the most of us are crushed 
tragedians. When next I attempt poetry it will be when 
I can rhyme my name with donkey. Hallo ! here is 
something for good measure. I suppose — 

\_Enter Lord Mandeville, door in flat. ^ 

Man, Well, sir, what are you doing here? Why do 
you dog my footsteps ? 

Car. (r.) This is a case of mistaken identity. I 
didn't dog your footsteps ; as it happens, 1. was here be- 
fore you. 

Man. (l.) Not a word from you, sir. How many 
times have I told you not to speak to me at all ? 

Car. Just as many times as I have told you that 1 
wouldn't if you'll only let me alone. 

Man. I would not for the world have it known to 
strangers, but 1 will tell you, sir, confidentially speaking, 
that you are a scoundrel— a deep-dyed scoundrel. 

Car. Confidentially speaking, you have told me all 
that before. If you've nothing new to say, I humbly 
take my leave. {About to go.) 

Man. Stay, sir ; where are you going ? whose home 
do you now intend to darken ? how many new hearts do 
you intend to desolate ? 

Car. Oh, three or four or more, just as I happen to 
feel about it. 

Man. You cool, unblushing villain ! I'll take good 
care you do no damage here. I'll show them the de- 
generate rascal that you are, and they shall shun you as 
they would poison or the cholera. 

Car. All right. Go ahead. "I'll see what I can do to 
retaliate. 

Man. The next time you get in debt, I'll see you rot 
in prison before I spend a farthing to help you out. 

Car. That's a good point. Good-by. 

Man. Come, what will you take to leave this house at 
once and forever ? 

Car. Oh, very little — if I can take the girl I love with 
me. If not, the tenure and fee-simple of this earth and 
of all the planets that make up the universe would not 



32 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

buy me.. {Looks defiant while Mandeville shakes his 
fist at him.) 

End of Act III. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE — Centre dooi- chamber. A piano on the l. with 
lamp npon it. A table r. u. e., and arm-chair j window 

R. 2 E. 

[Enter Lord Mandeville and Mrs. Churchill, c. 

door l.] 

Man. (r. c.) I tell you, Mrs. Churchill, your daughter 
does not take kindly to me. I understand philosophy, 
have some knowledge of the classics, and in all depart- 
ments of science I can take it up with most men. But 
when it comes to dealing with women I find myself 
" Lucus a non lucendo"— a light that does not shine. 

Mrs. C. (l. c.) You must not lose patience. Bea- 
trice is only a young girl, and needs to be humored and 
flattered. 

Man. Not of the slightest use, madam. I have court- 
ed her by heart, and 1 have courted her by book. 1 have 
tried her in mathesis, with a trifling of geology for a 
flavor. I have spiced my conversation with a few edify- 
ing hints on the latest astronomical developments, and 
wound up with a sprightly and fanciful dissertation on 
protoplasms and evolution — but all to no avail. 

Mrs. C. You must try some language less profound 
and more sentimental. 

Man. Oh, I have sagacity enough to understand that. 
Why madam, the sweetest and most sympathetic pass- 
ages from the entire gamut of poets, from Virgil down to 
Byron, won't move her. She absolutely refuses to be 
impressed or edified. 

Mrs. C. But compliments and sentiments are only 
effective when they are original. 

Man. Are not all compliments original ? What mat- 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 33 

ter in whose words we express them, as long as the senti- 
ments are our own ? We do wisely to study the poets, 
for the proper and more drastic utterance of our deepest 
thoughts. 

Mrs. C, You must not be so easily discouraged. If 
you manage her rightly you may yet be successful. 

Man. I hope so, I hope so, Mrs. Churchill. 

[Enter Dora a?td Beatrice, c door i..] 

UoRA (l. c.) How beautiful your garden looks, 
aunty. 1 have been strolling with Beatrice around the 
grounds until it was too dark to see. Those lovely 
acacias that were scarcely budding when I was here last, 
are now in full bloom, and emit a delightful fragrance. 
Ah ! here is his truant lordship. This is gallantry, in- 
deed, to leave us two ladies go out unprotected and alone 
without even making the offer of an escort. 

Man. (r.) Ah ! Lady Dora, you are too severe — 
upon my word you are. Do you think that I would 
willingly forego the sight of the roses in their bloom or 
the company of ladies when they are young and beautiful ? 

Dora. Your lordship's flatteries would tempt me to 
forgive, had not painful experience previously convinced 
me of their insincerity. I dread to think what mischief 
your lordship's enticing ways and insinuating words must 
have done to more confiding souls. 

Man. Yes, I will admit that they have done no end 
of mischief — to myself. I have never set out to captivate 
anybody yet without discovering in the end that 1 was 
the solitary victim. King Cioesus was surprised when 
the Persian Cyrus routed his forces, because the oracles 
had prophesied that when he crossed the river Halys, a 
great empire would be overthrown — it never struck him 
until then, it was his own they meant. And so do I, 
seeking to win another's heart, play havoc with mine own. 

Dora. How beautifully expressed. Beatrice, what do 
you say to Lord Mandeville's last sally ? 

Beat, (l.) Oh, very fine indeed ! What was it ? 

Man. {To Mrs. Churchill.) See, she doesn't pay 
me the slightest attention. 

Mrs. C. (r. c) Dora, I have something to impart to 
you. 



34 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Dora. What is it, aunty ? 

Mrs. C. I will tell you privately. Your lordship will 
excuse us, 

Man. Regretfully, but resignedly. 

Dora. I am loth to leave you alone. Beatrice, don't 
mind a word he says. His lordship is very deceitful. 
Oh ! I know him of old. I am with you, aunty. 

YExit with Mrs. Churchill, c. door l. 

[Beatrice sits down to piano l., and commences to play 
softly and hum P^ 

Man. [Aivkwardly after a pause.) Sing, sing, sweet 
siren, sing ! while I,- more ardent than was ancient 
Ulysses, fall a ready victim to your alluring strains. 
{Fanse.) I like music, simple, sweet, yet soul-inspiring 
music. Miss Beatrice, don't you like simple, sweet, yet 
soul-inspiring music ? 

Beat. Yes. 

Man. Do you know what I think ? 

Beat. No, your lordship, I do not know what you 
think. 

Man. Your playing just reminded me of the idea that 
there must be some relation between a nice picture, a 
statue or a person, and a fine strain of music. I wonder 
if anybody has ever studied the affinity of the cadences 
with, or the indirect derivation of the harmony of sound 
to the harmony of color, and — 

Beat. No, I don't know anything about that, and I 
don't car^ to, either. If your lordship like, you can take 
this book ; there is a treatise all about it. I am sure it 
will amuse and interest you very much. I know it will, 
because I have found it too tedious for me to attempt. 
Just take that table yonder ; 1 will order you a lamp. 

[^Exit c. door l. 

Man. (Shouts after her.) Don't trouble yourself on 
my account. \Sotto voce.) I half suspect that this was 
meant for my dismissal. Damn me if I couldn't admire 
her tricks, if they were not directed against myself. 

l^Exit c. r. 

\Enter Dora and Mrs. Churchill, c. door l.] 
Mrs. C. (l.) This letter that I have read to you 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 35 

proves Robert to be no more than a gaaibler. He comes 
back to force himself into good terms with his family, 
and then obtain their assistance to pay his pressing debts 
and retrieve his fortunes. It pains me to say this of my 
step son, yet duty compels me to expose him, and warn 
you before it is too late. 

Dora (r.) And yet Robert does not appear like an 
adventurer. His actions have been always proud and 
generous. 

Mrs. C. Such natures are the easiest enticed. 

DoRA.^ But Robert is just from America, and had not 
lingered in London a day before he came here. How is 
it possible that he could have contracted there such heavy 
debts ? 

Mrs. C. Don't you see. This Thomas Wrexford is 
an American. He pursued him hither to collect the 
debt. He writes he is waiting for the money to return 
again. That establishes his guilt. 

Dora. Is it not likely thaj: it is meant for Reginald ? 
I have heard some queer rumors of his doings in 
London. 

Mrs. C. Absurd ! Reginald is barely out of college, 
and I at least should know his vices. There, it is in 
plain letters to Mr. Robert Churchill. Does that admit 
of doubt ? 

Dora. Though all this be true, still I believe I can 
respect — yes, love him. There are few men whose 
actions will bear close scrutiny. There is something in 
Robert's demeanor and unpresuming dignity I cannot 
help admire. What if he has nothing now ? With me to 
urge him on he could soon gain that position which by 
right of power and genius belongs to him. But I am 
glad you told me this, as 1 may use this fact to bend him 
to my will. I'll make him set adrift this beggar he has 
brought with him, or make him choose twixt her and me. 

\^Enter Robert, c door r.] 

Rob. (c.) Why, mother — Dora — here in the dark ? 
Let me turn up the light — so. You're not angry with 
me for being late ? I was delayed, but managed with 
great diligence to make the last train. 

Mrs. C. What kept you in London ? 



36 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Rob. Business ; nothing else, I assure you, could 
have kept me so long away. 

Mrs. C. What business, Robert, have you in London, 
that takes you there so often ? 

Rob. You are inquisitive, mother. 

Mrs. C. Why should I not know ? Is there anything 
in these visits that you must conceal, that you are 
ashamed to own ? 

Rob. There is nothing I am ashamed to own, but 
there are some things I do not think advisable to tell. 
I had rather not talk about this. 

Dora. See what interest your mother takes in you. 

Rob. And do you too, Dora ? 

Dora. Well, yes — a little. 

Rob. Vv'hat ! only a little. This is poor progress. I 
must do better and you must show me how. 

Dora. Then 'tis easily done ; you have but to grant 
one favor that 1 ask. 

Rob. a favor. Is that all ? Speak out, and it is 
done. 

Dora. And you will promise what I ask ? 

Rob. What can you ask that would injure me, that 
any man of honor and in love would or should not do ? 

Dora. Then, Robert Churchill, if you do care for my 
love, you must send this girl away. 

Rob. Who? 

Dora. Margaret Hastings. 

Rob. Where ? 

Dora. Anywhere, so she is out of my sight. 

Rob. You cannot mean that, Dora. You would not 
have me drive out ruthlessly into the world this orphan, 
bound to my care by the holiest of promises made at her 
father's dying bed ? 

Dora. Her presence is unbearable to me. 

Rob. What cause have you ? why do you hate her ? 

Dora. 1 hate her, because I hate her. I fear her 
pretty face and unctuous, hesitating tongue. Because I 
• know while she is near I never can be complete mistress 
of your heart. Oh, I can be generous too, and forgiving 
even to my enemies — that is, those whom 1 can crush 
at will ; but I can brook no rival, and where I have 
cause for envy I have cause to hate. 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 37 

Rob. I am sorry for you, Dora. Where malice rests 
there is no happiness ; the soul but clouds itself with the 
evil it conceives. Do you think that it will make you 
light and glad of heart to know that you have made an- 
other's sad and heavy ? 

Dora. What a saintly and shocked expression you 
put on ! Come, you will never do to play the moralist. 
Your past spoils the effect. I know your history too well. 

Rob. You are raving, Dora ; I know not of what you 
speak. 

Dora. {Sarcastically^ I can account for your fre- 
quent trips to London, the mysterious correspondence 
you take such pains to hide. Robert Churchill, your 
secret's out, and given to the wind. You stand here a 
refugee, with your fortune shattered as your reputation, 
and not the debtor's fate alone — the felon's cell awaits 
you. 

Rob. Who gave this information? {To Mrs. 
Churchill.) Was it you ? 

Mrs. C. I do not deny it. 

Rob. You have played the spy. 

Mrs. C. Call it what you choose. And though you 
were my right and only child, and though it broke my 
heart, I would expose you if only to warn those whom 
you would entoil. Do you recognize this letter ? I have 
suspected you from the first. 

Rob. No mother's instiLcts will make her criminate 
her son. You have taken the word of an outlaw, a liber- 
tine against me, without asking my defence or any man's 
corroboration. 

Mrs. C. Don't be too sure of that. Your frequent 
whisperings with Reginald and his distressed appearance 
convmced me that he knew something about your affairs. 
It was only after showing him this written proof that I 
prevailed upon him to confess it all, and even then he 
begged me with tears in his eyes to make no use of it 
against you. {Takes a bell.) I shall send for him to 
prove the value of your denials. 

\^Enter Servant, c. door l. Mrs. Churchill whispers 
to him and he exits c. door l.] 

Rob. {Aside.) Did he do that ? 



38 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

Dora. I do not care for vindications. Why make a 
scene of this ? 

Rob. My ambition was never for wealth alone, nor 
was my pride fed by success ; and had I failed — tor who 
can shield the flame of fortune that flares and flickers in 
the current of events — what, though I'd lost my all, 
think you with that I'd lose my self-respect or feel in- 
clined to hide reproachless poverty with ignoble shams ? 
I have faced want too often, and felt its sting, but never 
yet was I ashamed of it. Not resting with this charge 
against my manhood, you must impugn my honor. 

\Enter Reginald ; after him, Beatrice, Mandeville 
a7id Carrington, c door l.] 

Reg. You have sent for me. [Going to Mrs. 
Churchill, r.) 

Mrs. C. I want you to confirm here, in presence of all 
assembled, that Robert Churchill — no matter what he pro- 
fesses — is only an adventurer. 

Reg. Be quiet, mother, for heaven's sake. 

Mrs. C. Here is a letter from one Thomas Wrexford 
who, it seems, has pursued him hereto England for some 
five thousand pounds, obtained through fraudulence and 
deceit. 

Reg. Oh, mother, mother, you know not how much 
you torture me. 

Mrs. C. Oh, you need not try to shield him now. It 
is too late, and he has forced me to this step. 

Reg. My God ! what shall I do ? 

Rob. (Low.) What your conscience dictates. Have 
no fear from me. Say what you will. I would not add 
another pang to those that rack you now. Poor coward, 
I pity you. {Turns from him, R.) 

Car. {Who has remained at back with Beatrice, 
whispering.^ Don't let this weakness make a rogue of 
you. Speak out like a man. Be true, be wise, 'tis all 
the same ; truth lacks of wisdom but the name. {Steps 
back to c. door l. Beatrice 7iext door, r.) 

Mrs. C. He hesitates to condemn his brother. 

Rob. Enough of this. 

Mrs. C. Ah ! ha ! I thought 'twould turn out so. 

Rob. {To Mrs. Churchill.) You glory in my fall, 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 



39 



to have me blacked and blighted before all the world. 
You have made my childhood sad and desolate. The 
budding life you should have watched and cherished, you 
served with coldness and neglect. The young heart you 
might have trained to love, to cling to you, you forced 
it to turn away with mistrust — aye, aversion. Where you 
might have planted flowers to blossom, and in their 
ripening beauty give you richest thanks again, you 
sowed but pain and tears. It was you that estranged 
and forced me from my home. And now I have come 
back to say to you— my father's second wife— for his, 
for his hallowed memory's sake, let us be friends at last. 
You have accepted the proffered truce only to violate it. 
You have grovelled in the churchyard of the past, and 
brought to light what it had been best for you to have 
left below. I'll leave your house to-morrow. 

\^Enter Margaret, 'c. door \..'\ 

Dora. I will forget everything. {Goes to him.) 

Rob. {^Disregarding Dora, goes up to Margaret.) 
Have you listened to all this ? These little rankling burrs 
that malice here throws out are scarcely worth our while 
to tread upon. What do I care if those who do not 
know speak ill of me ? But you act so strangely. Why 
do you turn away your head ? Has your mind been 
poisoned against me too ? Oh no, it is not possible— 
the very doubt defames you. I do not chide you, Mar- 
garet ; don't weep. I am only pained, not angry. 
There, there, go— gc. (Mrs. Churchill leadi?ig Mar- 
garet away door c. l.) 

Mrs. C. ril take you to your room, and explain his 
wicked conduct. Exit. 

Dora (r.) There is the guileless and confiding 
nature whom you have reared and cared for all her life. 
Lord Mandeville, it is getting late ; will you attend me 
home ? 

Man. {Who is standing at the table, r.) Presently, 
your ladyship, presently. {^Exit Dora, c. door r. 

Beat. {Going up to Robert.) Brother,, I don't be- 
lieve a word of anything said against you. Moreover, I 
believe you can clear this up any time you choose. But 
I do suspect that you now refuse to vindicate yourself, 



40 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

because you are too noble to do so by getting anybody 
else into trouble. Now please, Robert, don't take 
mother's words too much to heart. I am sure that she 
must feel some inkling of the truth, which irritates her 
all the more. Let her find out how cruelly unjust she was, 
and you will see, it will hurt her more than you, and she 
will do anything for reparation. 

Rob. You are a noble girl, Beatrice. 
Beat. Good night. 

Rob. Good night. \Exit Beatrice c. door l. 

Man. Sir, I have been an unwilling witness to an un- 
pleasant scene. Yet I assure you, sir, you stand not less 
for it in my regard. I have taken a liking to you, Mr. 
Churchill, and have found nothing in your character but 
what I must sanction and admire. If now — pardon the 
presumption — you are suffering the effects of some little 
indiscretion, I beg that you will not hesitate to accept 
my assistance. Whatever you need, call on me. Don't 
be backward. I ask it as a favor. Call on me at any time. 
{Turns round and faces Carrington, c, who is advanc- 
ing^ stares at him for a moment, and then walks off as if 
in disgust^ c door r.) 

Car. Mr. Churchill, allow me to grasp your hand ; you 
are a gentleman. Good-night. ^Exit c. door r. 

Rob. Good-night. \^Ti/r?is down the light, throws him- 
self into ar7n-chair^ and remains silent for a while with his 
face buried in his hands.) Another bubble broken. Faith 
is a fallacy and gratitude a dream. How all experience 
tends to teach us selfishness. {Rises.) Come, cheer up, 
man, cheer up ; the greatest harm that people can do is to 
themselves. I should laugh at this. No use ! We 
can't philosophize with our feelings, and humor rules us 
against our will. What a monstrous bubble humor is ! 
Without a form, without a substance, changing with the 
wind and weather, it is the weakness of mankmd, and its 
tyrant. It is the foe and worriment of age, the mocking 
sprite that holds out to us that will o' the wisp which man 
calls hope, then, darkening, shrouds us in despair. This 
peevish child of thought weighs heavy upon the heart 
while 'tis cradled on the brow. {Steps to a window ajid 
looks out.) Ah ! this is a grateful breeze. The sky is 
studded with stars, and not a cloud to emblemize the 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 41 

misery below. *Twas such a night as this when I left 
England. Just such a moon seemed looking down with 
pity upon my loneliness. How I have suffered since ! 
Where is the bliss I once anticipated ? Take it all in all 
the past is but a mirror of the future. Storm-clouds 
have passed, dark clouds must come again. Joy and 
woe^ and smiles and tears, like changing seasons, hold 
their visits round. A birth to feast, a death to mourn, 
mayhap a marriage comes between. We struggle to 
reach a goal, disappointments come ; yet still we plod. 
Obstacles in rugged mountains rise, and in vast deserts 
intervene. Chance bears us on, or holds us back, and 
while pursuing each our aim, there come gray hairs and 
furrows on the brow, bent form, and palsied limbs ; and 
then — and then we reach it. Reach what ? the end. 
[Footsteps are heard}) Hark, what is that ? ij^oves 
stealthily toward the Q,. door.) Who is this? 

[£nter Margaret c. door l.] 

Mar. (l.) 'Tis I— Margaret. 

Rob. (r.) What brings you here at this time ? 

Mar. I could not help it, Robert. I tried in vain to 
sleep, but something would not let me. You are not 
angry, are you, Robert, because when this evening you 
spoke to me I turned away ? Yes, cold and warily turned 
away. I did it for your sake — indeed I did. I have 
been told and I have found it out, that it is not right for 
me to permit you to be so kind to me. That we should 
be more strange and distant to each other. Dora de- 
mands it, too, and should I not do everything to please 
the one whom you intend to make your wife ? And I 
have heard — what it is torture for me to believe — that 
you are poor — ruined. To save me pain, to hide from 
me the knowledge of your losses, you have permitted me 
to waste your lessening means in empty pleasures and idle 
luxuries. And I accepted all you gave, because I thought 
that you were rich. How could I know that every glit- 
tering ornament, the costly dresses you surprised me 
with, were all as blood drops from your breast. You 
should have known that I must learn the truth some 
day ; and then to make me feel that I, who should have 
gladdened your life, have but added to its misery, and in- 



42 ROBF.RT CHURCHILL. 

Stead of lightening your load have helped to weigh you 
down. Oh, this was cruel, Robert, so cruel. How have 
I deserved this from you ? Here are my jewels — every 
one. Don't disdain them from my hand. They have 
cost you a great deal, and they may assist you more than 
you now believe. All I have is yours. I will give up 
everything. I will slave for you day and night, and it 
shall be my sole happiness to prove my gratitude. 
Only, Robert, leave this country. The land that re- 
warded your efforts once will not refuse you now — 
where people may be poor without being dependent, and 
the lowly may strive without danger of slight. See, 
Robert, on my knees I beg of you come back — back to 
America. {Sinks on her knees. Robert, as if too over- 
powered to speak, kisses her forehead.^] 

End of Act IV. 



ACT V. 

SCENE — Handsome apartments. Doors in flat a?id set 
doors, R. and L. 2 E. 

[Enter Robert and Mandeville, door r. 2 e.] 

Man. (l.) So you are determined to go back again 
to America ? 

Rob. (r.) I had never intended to remain here long ; 
besides, my business requires my presence there. 

Man. You may believe that I shall regret to see you 
go. You are the only man to whom I can talk a sensible 
word — in fact, the only man who will listen to me at all ; 
and you do not know how much yoi: will oblige me if in 
some way you would enable me to give you some testi- 
monial of my friendship. 

Rob. Then I am in a position to take advantage of 
your kind offer ? 

Man. Well, sir, what is it ? 

Rob. That you sanction the match between your 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 43 

nephew and my sister Beatrice, You see the two people 
are in love ; and what is the use of standing in their way ? 

Man. You cannot mean it, Mr. Churchill I Do you 
think that for his graceless conduct I am going to let him 
cut me out ? I'll teach him how to worry me in the 
future. I may have only a small chance myself, but he 
shall not glory in getting her ; not if I can help it, sir. 

Rob. But you must allow the girl to have her pref- 
erences ; you see she likes him. 

Man. Oh, I shall overcome that. She need not have 
me, but she must refuse him, too. 

Rob. How can you expect that ? Everybody has a 
will, an instinct of their own. There are many planets 
whirling round the sun : each has its movements, each 
its orbit's svving, sways one pendulum to a clock, one 
mind, one frame. Surely, a man of your wisdom and 
experience should know that while it is possible to in- 
spire another's thoughts, and to swerve them, we cannot 
enforce them, nor can we crush them. 

Man. Mr. Churchill, you have me cornered ; and if 
only to keep my promise to you I shall not stand in 
their way. But you would scarcely believe what that 
boy has made me suffer. 

Rob. Take my word, sir, he has some good qualities 
in him which only require years and a little foibearance 
on your part to bring out. You see your harshness has 
only made him obdurate. 

Man. I shall take your advice, sir, though I am sure 
the young dog does not deserve it. They are coming. 
I believe I had best get out of their way. [Retires a 
moment back, then exit l. door.) 

[Enter Beatrice and Carrington, door l.] 

Rob. Well, where have you been ? 

Beat, (l.) Taking a stroll. 

Rob. (r.) Taking a stroll ? you two? 

Beat. I'm sure it wasn't of my choosing. He would 
persist in following me in spite of my remonstrance. 

Rob. Well, sir, what do you mean by following this 
lady in spite of her remonstrance 1 

Car. (c.) Oh! she didn't remonstrate so very much ; 
besides, if your honor will allow me to plead before this 



44 A'OBEA'T CHURCHILL. 

court, I would make bold to state that the opposing 
counsel has not presented the case in proper form. 

Rob. Allow me to be the judge of that. Continue 
with the prosecution. What did this objectionable per- 
son persist in telling you ? 

Beat. Oh, nothing. 

Car. There, you see, can you find fault with that ? 

Rob. a great deal, sir. You should have put in your 
time to better advantage. You may now retire {motion- 
ing Carrington away) while I cross-examine the wit- 
ness. [Exit Carrington, door l.) Why do you tease 
the poor fellow so ? I know he loves you ardently. 
' Beat. How do you know that I love him ? 

Rob. Oh, I can see it in your eyes. Take my advice : 
don't be too sure of him. Think what rash things 
people sometimes do when they imagine their love is un- 
requited. He might run away or do something still 
worse, and you may have yet to blame yourself for 
blighting his existence. 

Beat. I wouldn't have him do that ; but I do not 
want him — to — to — annoy me so much. It would be 
wicked to blight his life, poor dear ; but I sha'n't let 
him be too presumptive. [^Exit door l. 

Rob. How discontent will feed on other people's hap- 
piness. I wish I could forget myself. {Sees Reginald 
at the door R.) Why do you stand hesitating there ? Are 
you ashamed to face me ? 

Reg. (r.) How can I look you in the face after what 
I have done ? 

Rob. (l.) Don't harp upon this perpetually. I am 
satisfied to wipe it from my memory. Here are the 
papers and a receipt in full. Destroy them. Let the 
consuming flames burn from your mind all inclinations 
to such vile recklessness hereafter. 

Reg. And you shower this generosity upon one who 
has shown himself so thankless, so base ! Oh, brother ! 

Rob. There, there, I was as much to blame as you. I 
should have been more open. This will teach me as 
well as you — there's no security in subterfuge. 

Reg. You have taught me what it is to be a man. 
And if my new-born spirit does not lie to me, you will 
yet find me worthy of your confidence. 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 45 

Rob. [Accepting Reginald's hand.) I believe you. 
{As if try i fig to appear disintej^ested.) But stay, how' are 
you prospering in that affair of yours, your suit for 
Margaret ? 

Reg. I have not had the heart to speak to her of late. 
In fact, the more I consider the more I am compelled to 
see how entirely unworthy I am of her. 

Rob. x\nd yet I think I have noticed that she likes 
you. 

Reg. I thought so, too, at one time, but now she 
seems more cold and distant every day. 

Rob. That is not so. You will have her yet. I can- 
not stay to see your marriage ; though I would like to 
have this event settled before I am away — to-day. You 
will find her in yonder room. See her now ; it is my de- 
sire ; I shall not listen to excuses. Go. {Exit Reginald, 
door in flat.) And thus forever do I thrust away my 
happiness. My God ! must duty always be to me a de- 
privation — mine the only sacrifice. Can I do otherwise ? 
I'm not so blind as to mistake her gratitude for love. 
It would be selfish to bind her thus to me. How could 
I enjoy what can only be affected, or perceive unmoved 
the pain that she must feel to hide the truth from me. 

[Enter Mrs. Churchill, door l.] 

Mrs. C. (l.) May I speak a word to you ? Robert, 
I cannot bear to see you go, without telling you how 
bitterly I feel the humiliation my own unworthy 
suspicions have brought upon me. 

Rob. (r.) But why recall what must be unpleasant to 
us both ? 

Mrs. C. I have treated you shamefully and unnatu- 
rally, and instead of using the power for retaliation that 
my injustice gave you, you have revenged yourself only 
with kindness. 

Rob. You only served me right for aiding to deceive 
you. 

Mrs. C. And the money you have laid out for Regi- 
nald — ■ 

Rob. We will let that stand to bear its interest in love. 



46 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

[Enter Mandeville, door l.] 

Man. (l.) It's past, the thing is done. Mrs. 
Churchill, you may congratulate me. 

Mrs. C. (c.) Did I not always say your lordship 
would ultimately be successful ? 

Man. Did you ? Well, I have been — in coming to 
my senses. I have discovered, madam, that for me the 
period of romance has slipped by. 1 have convinced 
myself that I am too old to leave my study and my 
books, to seek now what I had neglected in my youth. 
That instead of persisting in a hopeless rivalry, it were 
better for me to assist the winning party, and instead of 
sulking at my discomfiture, quiescently accept my 
fate ; and in reaping the thanks gain at least some small 
share of the happiness, the bliss, to which 1 have assisted 
others. 

Rob. a very sage and politic conclusion ! 

Man. Oh, trust me for knowing what is right. You 
will always find, Mr. Churchill, that people of my age 
are very deliberate, and do nothing without good 
reasons. Only young men are hot-headed, and refuse to 
be convinced. You, at least, Mr. Churchill, understand 
me and comprehend my objects. You can value my 
instructions, and as you will accept nothing more mate- 
rial, allow me to assure you that, no matter how critical 
the standpoint or how delicate the question, you will 
always be welcome to my advice — whenever you write 
lor it. I shall see you later. Mrs. Churchill, if you 
will accept my arm I shall explain it all. 
{^Exeufit Mandeville and Mrs. Churchill, door l. 

\Enter Reginald, door in flat. ^ 

Rob. (r.) Back already ? In tears ? I cannot un- 
derstand this. Has Margaret refused you ? You put 
me out of patience. Why don't you speak ? 

Reg. (l.) Why should I, when you have already 
guessed the truth ? 

Rob. Impossible ! You were too hasty — too impet- 
uous. 

Reg. I did my best. 



ROBERT CHURCHILL. 47 

Rob. You should not have forced conclusion ; you 
should have given her time. 

Reg. She was calm and self-possessed. And when 
she said that she could never be my wife, her grave, sad 
voice convinced me that the decision was irrevocable. 

Rob. Send her to me. Tell her I wish to speak to 
her. {Exit Reginald, door flat.) I know she loves 
him. Yet she refuses him for my sake. No, no, I can- 
not accept the sacrifice. 

[^Enter M a rg a re t , door in flat. ] 

Mar. (r.) You have sent for me, Robert ? 

Rob. (l.) Yes, Reginald has made me the confidant 
of his love for you, and I wished to tell you how glad it 
would make me to see your future provided for. I know 
he loves you dearly, and will make you a good husband. 
You will be happy with him. I pressed him to this de- 
claration because 1 wanted this matter settled before I 

Mar. And you urged him on, thinking that my heart 
was as a vane that could be turned at will. You would 
give me away as a playthi'ig that one grows Aveary of. 
You are tired of me, and wish me from your presence. 
Oh, I understand it all. Very well, it shall be as you 
wish. Only let me go back to my native land ; there I 
shall leave you, and you will never see me again, I have 
an aunt living somewhere in the West, whom I shall seek 
until I find her out. She'll not refuse to share her home 
with me. I shall not be a burden there. Oh, I can 
work, I can do many things to earn my livelihood. 

Rob. There was a rare exotic blooming in a garden, 
and enchanted by its bold rich coloring a boy would sit 
by it day by day to watch the phases of its growth, and 
dream. There came a time when that boy had to seek 
in foreign lands the peace, the comfort he could not find 
at home. And all that gave the parting pain was this 
same strange plant to which in silence he had so often 
poured out his sorrows, arid so relieved himself. And he 
carried its memories with him across the ocean, and 
through many years. But in his new abode, while he 
was still unfriended and alone, another flower sprang up 
as if to cheer him in his loneliness ; and that flower's 



48 ROBERT CHURCHILL. 

existence became his joy ; and it. was his delight to see it 
blossom in all its pure and tender loveliness. Yet did 
he not prize it as he should have done ; for the recollec- 
tion of that gayer plant, the passion of his youth, still 
haunted him, until he resolved to return from whence he 
came to where it grew, and if possible to claim it for his 
own. And when he beheld that flower again, the charm 
was broken, for its stately luxuriant ripeness disappointed 
him, and its brilliant hues repelled him by their very 
gorgeousness. The ideal of his youthful fancy was no 
longer there. And then it was that he looked back again 
to that little clinging bud that seemed to have sprung to 
life and yielded its sweetening influence — all for his 
sake ; and he felt for the first time how it had twined 
itself about his heart, how wretched he would be with- 
out it. Do you understand this story, Margaret, my 
love, my love, my love ? 

THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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